


Daeva

by Chiclet



Category: Aion (Video Game)
Genre: One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiclet/pseuds/Chiclet





	Daeva

The sun is more than warm on my back, a trickle of trapped heat under my hair but the stone is never anything but cold under my hands. The never ending chill soaks into my fingers and they ache. It feels like a wind almost, blowing outward from the center, rising upwards maybe from some deep well of darkness.

The stone daeva is perhaps twice my height, poised forever with His wings spread for flight and his hands open in welcome - or perhaps disappointment that I am still here. As tall as I am, my reverent fingers brush only the hem of His robe. The decorative carvings are deep cracks in the radiant stone, at once smooth as ice and rough with age. I've never seen one commissioned; waiting half finished in a sculptor's atrium, the feathers still sleeping deep in the rock until the master's hand releases them into their final, frozen freedom. The obelisks simply are and always have been. Created by Aion, graced by Aion. Their silent presence in our lives is unquestioned.

"Have you sickness, daeva?"

The Healer's voice is like the stone; chill and impersonal in the sunlight. In the corner of my eye her headdress cuts the air like a sacrificial knife.

I shake my head without thinking, still staring upwards into the blank, serene face. Does He live beneath his avatars, frozen as well? If I was to stand here just a moment longer, just a heartbeat more, would He rise up into His stone body and stretch his wings? Would he look down to see me standing at His feet?

"No." My fingers are almost numb now, turning pale with frost.

"Do you need healing, daeva?"

There is a difference, after all. But my body is fine, even if the sun overhead is still trying to turn me to a darker color through sheer force of a centuries-old will. I shake my head again, letting my hands fall away from the statue before my fingertips would make me a liar. Always so very cold. It is a simple mystery among so many, unanswered for being unimportant.

"No, I am not injured. Thank you." 

Stepping away is an odd shiver, although whether it is for the reverence I owe my God and this symbol of His power or something else, I don't know. The Healer lapses back into silence, although if I had to guess I'd say she's impatient with her duty. Certainly her eyes flickering over the market crowd do not seem unduly generous with goodwill. This far from a stable rift, there is very little that can happen at a resurrection stone to make an afternoon more interesting. My homage, if that's what it is, is not worthy of anyone's notice. After all, it's not as if the statue moved.

I can however, and a few steps merges me back into the swirl of the market and away from the priest who has probably already forgotten I ever existed. My people are bright with sun and heydonism, even in this sleepy place. A half hundred choices of color and style, hair loose in waves, bound with cloth, tied in a dozen loops of bone and bead, shugoes with their trim vests and bright eyes, voices raised above each other in greeting and parting and the incessant call to come buy, come buy. Aromas as rich as the colors swirl through the dusty air, salt and sharp and sweet.

This isn't Sanctum but given a thousand years, it could be. Perhaps the obelisk will watch a city rise around it, impervious to all change, looking only to the Tower. Waiting for the moment when His wings will finally, suddenly come to life. A daeva, indeed, so much more important than I.

I know my name and the feel of a weapon in my hand. I know I am Elyos and my god is Aion. There is money in my pouch, earned through honest labour for the humans I know that I am to protect. I am not injured although I may very well be sick unto my soul. I know that I am afraid to look.

And that is all I know.

The tightness in my belly reminds me then that it is midday and I still need to eat and that, at least, is easily fixed.


End file.
